


monsoon

by waveridden



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, Hlomecoming, Miami Dale (Blaseball Team), Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28680765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveridden/pseuds/waveridden
Summary: “Do you want to talk about it?”“Not really.” Beck pauses. “But I could use the company, if you’re up for it.”An incineration that doesn't happen, an incineration that does, and what it means to feel safe.
Relationships: Avila Guzman/Beck Whitney
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	monsoon

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a speed-write challenge I did with my partner! They sent me [Monsoon by Hippo Campus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LWsT7kqVoE) as my song prompt, and this is what I came up with. Thank you Tam for indulging me in this challenge idea, it was insanely fun. Obligatory disclaimer that I'm a Beams fan playing in the Dale's sandbox, so if I got anything wrong, mea culpa. Pronouns/etc are just what’s on the wiki.
> 
> CWs for discussion of canonical incineration and a little bit of post-incin grief.

On the last day of season eight, the Dale throw a big party.

And, listen — Avila’s been on this team for a good four seasons at this point. The Dale party hard basically every day. It’s kind of their thing. End-of-season bashes are a thing, and they only got bigger after Enhanced Party Time became a thing. The Dale are the life of the party, the life of every party.

So when she says it’s a big party, Avila means: it’s a big goddamn party. It feels like half the league is here. The music is bass-thumpingly brain-smashingly loud, vibrating through Avila’s fingertips and making it kind of hard to mix herself a drink, actually. She could go for a cocktail or six.

She doesn’t have to ask why the party’s like this, of course. It’s because Raúl killed an ump.

Avila swipes a random glass off the counter, something that looks like it has cherries in it. Something that doesn’t go with coffee. Every now and again that’s what she needs.

“Guzman!” someone shouts. “Where you going?”

“Getting some air,” Avila yells back, without turning around to see who she’s answering. The yacht’s only so big, and they haven’t started the club-crawl portion of the evening yet, so she needs to recharge before they start that.

There’s a room in the upper deck that Avila likes to go to when things get too loud. It’s a suite, meant for guests or something like that. When the yacht is docked in its normal spot, there’s a great view of the skyline, and there’s a little balcony that she likes to step out on for fresh air. And when that’s too much, she sits underneath the desk in the corner of the room. Sometimes she needs to feel small.

So she makes her way there, weaving through the crowd, holding her drink aloft. A couple people recognize her, call her name, and she waves without stopping. They understand, because of course they do. It’s just how Dale parties go: if someone’s on their way somewhere, you let them go.

Finally, as she gets to the hallways, the crowd thins out until she can walk normally, hustling up the stairs and to sweet, sweet privacy. She thinks it’s going to be a balcony day. The weather’s nice.

Avila opens the door to the suite and then stops.

Beck Whitney is standing at the balcony railing, looking out at the water. Her back is to Avila, which is good, because Avila doesn’t think she could move or speak even if she tried. There’s a drink in Beck’s hand, and she keeps tapping the glass against the railing in a slow, lazy rhythm. Avila has the strangest urge to hum along to it, to make a tune for it.

She should find another suite, let Beck have her privacy, but… this is Avila’s suite. And a little conversation never hurt anyone, right?

She takes a step into the suite, still holding the door open behind her. “Hey.”

Beck jumps so badly that her drink sloshes over the railing. “Warn a girl next time,” she mutters, but she doesn’t seem upset. She turns to face Avila, pushing her sunglasses up to the top of her head. “What’s up?”

“I, uh.” Avila has to stop. Her brain is already kicking into overtime. It would be ridiculous to say that this is her suite, or to ask for a conversation when Beck clearly sought out her own privacy. Is this overstepping? Where’s the line between them? What kind of line is it? They’re friends, but are they ask-about-problems friends? Are they this close?

Beck’s still looking at her. Avila swallows. “Hi,” she says inanely.

“Hi,” Beck answers. “Did you need something?”

“No, I just wanted some air. This is where I normally come.”

Beck nods. “It’s a nice room.”

“Yeah, it’s…” Avila pauses. Beck’s hand is shaking, a tremor that would be too small for Avila to notice if she weren’t fine-tuned to this kind of thing. “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright?” Beck lets out a breath. “Asking the big questions tonight, huh?”

“I know.” Avila takes a couple cautious steps closer to her, letting the door swing shut. “I didn’t notice you weren’t downstairs, with… the crowd.”

Beck spreads her arms open. The skyline of Miami glitters over her shoulders. “Found somewhere else to be.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

Avila shrugs. “Anything.”

“Not really.” Beck pauses. “But I could use the company, if you’re up for it.”

“Sure,” Avila says, even though her heart is pounding for some reason. “Got room out there for two?”

Beck slides to one corner of the railing. Avila wants to smile despite herself. The free corner is the one that Avila likes. It has the better view.

She doesn’t say anything as she slides into the space on the balcony. Beck doesn’t say anything either, just looks back at the skyline. After a couple minutes she starts tapping her glass against the rail again, a slow rhythm. It’s too steady to be a coincidence, too slow to be a song.

Avila can’t help herself. She lowers her mechanical hand to the railing and drums her fingers, filling the space between Beck’s taps with little staccato bursts, percussive rhythms that she forgets as soon as they come to her.

Beck doesn’t say anything, but Avila can see her smiling. That’s enough of a win for her.

  
  


#

  
  


This is how Avila remembers the game.

The Dale are fireproof, but being fireproof isn’t worth much until it gets tested. Avila has lived in enough apartments with smoke detectors that actually didn’t work to know that alleged safety isn’t the same as actual safety. It didn’t feel safe, not yet.

They were playing against the Crabs. She’s not sure why she remembers that. It seems inconsequential. She doesn’t remember who was at bat, she just remembers the dark red jerseys. It looked… not quite like fire. The color was wrong. But close enough that it put her on edge.

It was the end of the game. Top of the ninth. They were almost done when she saw the rogue ump turn. She was in center field, back far enough that there wasn’t anything she could do.

She should’ve. She should’ve opened her mouth and screamed. Tiana did that once. A rogue umpire had been ambling towards somebody, and she’d opened her mouth and let loose a blood-curdling shriek, the kind of thing that you run away from before you even realize you’re hearing it. The whole team ran for the hills on instinct, and nobody had been incinerated.

Afterwards Teddy told her it was a hell of a strategy, great call, but could she let him know next time she was planning on blowing out everyone’s eardrums? And they’d laughed about it. Tiana Cash, umpire siren, keeping everyone else safe.

God, Avila hasn’t thought of that in years.

But she was frozen. Couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even think. All she could do was watch as the umpire, standing by third base, turned towards second base. Towards Beck, who wasn’t looking. 

She watched a replay of the game, after they had a team debrief, after they were all home and safe. Jasmine had lifted hands to their mouth like they were going to yell. Qais looked like they were about to run over. And Avila was frozen. Little Avila on the screen just stood and stared at Beck about to die, just a few dozen yards in front of her.

And then Raúl had appeared.

The flash of light blew out all the cameras. There’s no footage of the rest of the game, nothing that can be salvaged enough to watch. All that’s left is what she remembers.

Avila remembers blinking the light out of her eyes, trying to clear them enough to see. She remembers being on her knees, even though she doesn’t remember falling. She remembers seeing Beck still standing, eyes wide, and being so relieved that she couldn’t stand up for another five minutes.

She remembers Raúl, standing when the smoke cleared. She remembers the look on his face, wide-eyed and disbelieving. She remembers hearing him laugh, triumphant and shocked, and she remembers hearing someone shout something. She remembers that they lost the game, and that they didn’t care one bit. She remembers both teams on the field afterwards, screaming together, looking at the ash where the umpire had been.

She remembers that Beck wasn’t there for that.

  
  


#

  
  


Election results happen the day before hlomecoming. The Dale don’t win any blessings, which is fine. As far as Avila’s concerned they won the ultimate blessing, and as long as they can keep Raúl they don’t have to worry about much else. They’re safe. It’s a dizzying, addictive feeling: safety. As long as Raúl’s here, and she’s here, Avila isn’t going to die.

Except—

Except Ron got incinerated.

Avila has been on the Dale for longer than she was on the Garages. She considers herself Dale first now, and she’s happier here. She gets to be louder and messier and more fun. She gets to be the coffee expert without arguments.

But she used to be able to argue with Ron. Even after he became an alternate, they would argue about coffee, or music, or other things. When’s the last time she called Ron, anyways? They used to talk. Didn’t they? Did they?

She doesn’t remember going to the suite, and she doesn’t remember crawling under the desk. It happened in flashes, fits and starts that she can’t completely recall. She’s not even sure where she was when she heard the news, only that she’s here now.

It feels better being in a small space. Not good, but better. She should call Allison — except Allison isn’t on the Garages anymore. Is that better? Should she be calling Teddy instead? Should she call someone at all?

The door opens. Avila curls in a little tighter on instinct.

“Avila?” Beck says quietly. After a second, she adds, “I can, uh. I can see your foot.”

Avila closes her eyes. Carefully, she fumbles her phone and types out a text to Beck:  _ Not now. _

It takes a second, but then Beck lets out a breath. “Okay, I’m just gonna.” There’s a quiet noise that Avila can’t place that sounds immediately like a mug on a counter, a coffee shop sound that doesn’t belong in this suite. And then the door closes, and Avila’s alone.

She doesn’t come out from under the desk right away, but curiosity gets the better of her eventually. When she crawls out she sees a mug filled with something steaming — probably not coffee, everyone on this team knows by now not to make her coffee. It smells sweet.

It’s too hot outside for hot chocolate. Avila drinks the whole mug anyways.

  
  


#

  
  


To: beck whitney 🌹🦇   
thanks

To: beck whitney 🌹🦇   
also sorry

From: beck whitney 🌹🦇   
Don’t worry about it.

From: beck whitney 🌹🦇   
I can bring more if you want?

To: beck whitney 🌹🦇   
no thanks

From: beck whitney 🌹🦇   
Take care. We’re here if you need us.

From: beck whitney 🌹🦇   
And if that’s too much, I’m here if you need me.

  
  


#

  
  


Hlomecoming is… weird.

For one thing, it’s a different kind of party than Avila’s been going to for the last few years. The Dale do dinner parties and club parties, but this is practically a gala. And it’s in Dallas, which Avila has never figured out, just in terms of navigating a city. And also, Ron died yesterday, which feels like a cloud over everything Avila thinks.

It’s not a bad party, by any means. It’s nice to see everyone again: Allison and Kichiro arm in arm, Teddy with all the newest members of the team, Lang hanging out with the Pies now.

And the Dale are keeping an eye on Avila. She’s probably not supposed to notice it, but Qais and Jasmine are constantly sweeping her into conversations so that she’s not alone too long. It’s sweet. It’s also overwhelming.

She excuses herself after a couple hours, snagging a champagne glass and wandering out into the stadium. The party itself is being hosted on the field, so she takes a turn into the stands. It’s always strange, being in the stands, feeling like a fan for a second. The players look so small on the field. Like toys, or like a movie. Not quite like people.

No wonder fans vote for blessings that kill people.

“Avila,” someone says, and when she turns she sees Beck. “Need company?”

Avila pauses. “I’m not sure,” she admits.

Beck smiles. It catches her off guard for a second. When Beck joined the team she didn’t smile much. But she seems more at ease here. She’s wearing a dark lacy dress with a red leather jacket over the top. It crosses Avila’s mind, just for a moment, that the red matches Avila’s own hair, that it goes with the suit that she’s wearing.

“I can walk with you for a bit,” Beck offers.

Avila’s meant to be alone. She did. So she’s not sure why she nods. But she nods anyways, and Beck smiles at her, and they set off on a slow, lazy lap around the edge of the stadium.

The quiet is nice until it isn’t, an abrupt change after half a dozen minutes. Suddenly Avila can’t stand the absence of conversation, so she says, “Are you having fun?”

Beck hums. “The crowd’s a bit much.”

“Agreed,” she admits. “It’s just weird, seeing everyone.”

“From the Garages?”

“Yeah. And we’re all trying to talk about-” she swallows the words suddenly. The Flowers were cursed, allegedly. Avila doesn’t believe in curses, but she remembers the string of incinerations. The Garages had a bad season too, lost four players in as many months, but the Flowers lost… more than that. It lasted longer for them, and Beck in particular lost more than most. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t finish your sentence,” Beck points out. She doesn’t sound upset.

“I just,” Avila says, and then the words are stuck in her throat. Beck shoots her a look, and she has to hold up a hand, trying to indicate somehow that she’s trying to think. Beck doesn’t question it.

At last, some of the block between brain and mouth disintegrates. Avila manages to say, “We’re safe now.”

Beck nods. “For a given definition of safe,” she says. It doesn’t sound angry.

“But I forgot that—” Avila shuts her mouth. She takes her hand and runs it along the side of her prosthetic, a nervous habit, feeling the metal underneath her fingertips, all the familiar divots. She tries to let it ground her. It only sort of works. “It’s not just us,” she finishes.

“We all have a lot of people,” Beck says. Her gaze cuts over to the field. Avila follows it and catches a small cluster of Flowers players, mingling with players in Hellmouth black and yellow. “I’d give my safety up for any one of them in a heartbeat, but that’s not how it works.”

Avila nods. She didn’t know Beck well before she was on the Dale, but she knew about Cali. Everyone knew about Cali. She thinks about Beck, absent from the celebration on the field. She thinks about Beck, stepping away from the party. She thinks she understands.

“I wish we could keep them safe,” she mutters. She thinks of Ron, both before and after the alternate reality. She didn’t know him as well afterwards, but his coffee opinions were the same, so she could have the same handful of arguments with him over and over. It was soothing. It’s a rhythm that she fell out of, that she can’t get back now. “If we could make sure that all the incinerations came to us…”

Beck takes in a sharp breath. “Could we?”

Avila frowns. “We can’t guarantee it, but-”

“But we can campaign,” Beck says. There’s a spark to her that Avila’s only seen a couple times before, wheels turning in the back of her mind. It’s a good look on her. “Try to have our fans gun for these blessings so that the incinerations come to us, and-”

“And no one has to die,” Avila finishes. Beck grins at her, sharp and bright, and she feels a familiar little tug in the back of her chest.  _ Beck and Cali, _ she has to remind herself.  _ Beck and Cali, it was a whole thing, you can’t do this to yourself. _

“No one has to die,” Beck repeats. “Would Qais-”

“They definitely would.”

“When can we start campaigning?”

“After siesta,” Avila suggests.

Beck blinks. “I forgot that it’s siesta,” she admits, and there’s an embarrassed tone to it that makes Avila laugh. The corners of Beck’s mouth tilt up. She looks pleased. “I don’t know what to do over the break. I spent the last siesta just… strategizing for the Flowers.”

“Pick up a hobby,” Avila suggests. “Have you ever tried knitting?”

“Have you?”

“Yes, and I’m terrible at it.”

Beck grins. “Teach me anyways?”

That same flutter is at the back of Avila’s chest. She shouldn’t, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t—

“Of course,” Avila says, and Beck’s smile widens. And Avila can’t even bring herself to mind that she’s falling for someone impossible again. At least Beck’s nice. At least she’s smart.

At least they’re safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on Tumblr/Twitter @waveridden!


End file.
